


nevermore alone upon the threshold of my door

by norvegiae



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Everybody Lives, Fluff and Angst, Living Together, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, bad attempt at victorian letter writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:41:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22721872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norvegiae/pseuds/norvegiae
Summary: Any sailor worth his salt could bear the pain of separation, and Francis supposed he was no longer a sailor, which explained why his heart ached so much.(James Fitzjames goes to sea, and comes back home again.)
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 24
Kudos: 140





	nevermore alone upon the threshold of my door

Rescue, and subsequent return to England, seemed to trigger some sort of enlightenment in Francis Crozier. As he stepped with shaky feet onto that London dock, he was suddenly very sure of what he wanted – to be out of London again.

As soon as he was able, he ventured north, buying a country house in a sleepy Northern village, and announced his intention to retire. He was content to cloister himself away, allowing visits from only a select number of people. James Clark Ross and family, yes, Thomas Blanky, yes, James Fitzjames, certainly. Some others, depending on Francis’ mood.

Thomas Blanky had been his first houseguest, given that this was his part of the country, and he was keen to inspect Francis’ digs and point out nearby areas of interest. James Clark Ross had come, on his way back from visiting family in Scotland, and they had spent a week tramping through fields and reminiscing. Fitzjames had been the most frequent visitor, after that.

Following their return, James had been faced with his slow recovery to health, and after that it had been promotion, and a posting in Portsmouth, where he instructed young gunnery officers who were in turns fascinated by and infatuated with him. When he was not in Portsmouth, he was inevitably at Francis’ house.

“Where else would I go?” James had said, once. “We’re used to each other, you and I.”

Francis had agreed, and permitted himself some happiness at that thought.

They _were_ used to each other, and they were not used to being back in civilised society. Fine dinners and galas, having always been so repellent to Francis, now seemed to discomfort even James Fitzjames, who had once been their star. It was a rigid system into which James found he could no longer fit, and to flee to the country, to Francis, seemed the only logical solution.

Francis found himself very content with this. It contented him to see James in his house, eating breakfast at his dining table, sitting out in his garden, knowing that he slept in his second bedroom, warm and healthy and well fed. There would be no great tragedy here, which is how Francis had wanted it all along.

Eventually the second bedroom was used less and less frequently, and that was also how Francis had wanted it.

James returned from a few weeks in Portsmouth, one cold winter evening, with an envelope from the Admiralty held tightly in his hands.

“Back to sea,” he had said, after he had been revived by the warmth from the fire and a glass of wine.

Francis had always known James would return to sea, at some point, but it was something on which he tried not to dwell. He had known himself to be done with it as soon as he was back on dry land, but he knew James was restless. Perhaps, Francis thought, he was longing for the adventures he had had before they sailed north. These were adventures that didn’t leave him shaking at night, sweating through his nightshirt. To relive them, or to at least create good memories to tamp down all the bad ones, must have been what James wanted. It was not what Francis wanted, however, and he cursed himself for being so selfish.

“Five months,” James had said. “Not so long, eh?”

Francis shrugged a little, considering it. “Do you truly wish to go?” He had looked James in the eye and known his answer, but he wished to hear it in words.

James looked at him, a little sadly. “The sea’s all I know. I need a…taste of it again.” He took one of Francis’ hands between his own, to comfort Francis, and perhaps himself too. “If only to remind myself that it is not all starvation and horror.”

“There’s sense in that,” Francis conceded, because it was all he could think to say.

It was mid-January when James left, headed for Gibraltar; ostensibly to keep the peace, to keep an eye on things as war seemed to loom in the Crimea.

Five months thus lay between Francis and a happy reunion, and so he settled into a routine of long, solitary walks, correspondence and reading. He had a few years’ worth of issues of the Royal Society’s _Philosophical Transactions_ to catch up on, and spent many an evening so occupied.

Still, the house was quiet without James, and Francis often found himself staring wistfully out of the window, as if James would come striding down the lane at any moment, top hat and cane in hand, back from a night on the town. Any sailor worth his salt could bear the pain of separation, and Francis supposed he was no longer a sailor, which explained why his heart ached so much.

***

 _A grand feast,_ James had laughingly demanded as they lay tangled together in the sheets, the night before he left, _for when I return_. Francis had neither the funds nor the room for a grand feast, but he’d procured a pheasant from one of the nearby farmers, and was determined they’d have a good go of it anyway.

He had been all anxious energy, the day that James was due to return. He awoke early, and from that moment found he could not rest, and he annoyed the housekeeper and the maid by pacing around the drawing room, getting under their feet while they tried to clean and tidy.

There was a knock on the door late in the afternoon, and Francis nearly upset his chair from the speed with which he got to his feet and crossed the room to answer the front door.

It was not James, but a messenger with a letter.

A thousand nightmarish scenarios suddenly flooded into Francis’ head, but the writing on the envelope was unmistakeably James’ own, and this calmed him again. Clearly something had happened, but here was a note in James’ own hand, so it could not be as bad as all that.

***

_Dear Francis,_

_Please forgive me, because I know this is not the news you wanted to receive. By rights I should be, at this moment, tromping through your front door with my case and my muddy boots and one hundred new stories to tell you._

_We docked at Woolwich yesterday evening. The voyage back went very well. A bit of a Squall in the Bay of Biscay, but otherwise not much of note. I could barely sleep, so excited was I at the prospect of finding myself in your dear little home again. I was dog-tired, but knew that I would still have enough energy to get myself on a train north, back to you. But the moment my feet made contact with English soil, some Admiralty toady appeared from somewhere and told me that, following our being docked outside of Gibraltar and observing the comings and goings, they want me to report on the Crimean situation, as I saw it. I told him I did not see anything, and that I was no politician or diplomat, and as such could have nothing of worth to say._

_He insisted, however, that I came back to Whitehall and give a full report. Damned bizarre, and it makes me think there is more at foot here. I kicked up as much of a fuss as I was able, but in the end I knew it was no use, and let them bundle me off. I am being put up in some small rooms near Gray’s Inn. As I write I’ve only just woken up, and I shall dress and leave for the Admiralty shortly. The Rooms are pleasant enough but I feel so cooped up here – I am used to the wide expanse of the sea, and so close was I to the expanse of fields and woods that you and I have become used to! I wish these venerable Gentlemen would make themselves plain, so that I could know what was going on. Then I could bugger off, and leave them to their sordid Business._

_Forgive my rambling. I'm rather blue in the face with annoyance, and find myself getting distracted and vulgar. The point of all of this is that it will be another Week before I can come back to you. Do not do anything as stupid as coming to London to meet me, because the peace of blissful Retirement is sacrosanct, and must not be shattered so hastily. I shall be very cross if you venture one inch beyond your garden gate._

_I will come back to you, as I always do, but it will be a week later than planned. I hope you are not very much disappointed. Another week is not much after five months away, after all. Please forgive me, Francis, and know that every night I pray for God to bless you and keep you and I remain always,_

_Your dearest friend,_

_Jas. Fitzjames_

***

Francis set the letter down and sighed. He picked it up again, read it again. Set it down. Fought off another sigh. The room suddenly felt very large, and very empty. He opened a drawer in his writing desk and took out the box where he kept James’ letters. It was fit to bursting, now, but he could never bring himself to dispose of any of them.

He figured he’d be able to dispose of this newest missive, for all the bad feelings of disappointment that it brought about in him. He inspected it again, looking at the extravagant loops on the F in Francis. No, he thought, this letter still had value. It was a part of James, and Francis was content to own and hoard as much of James as he would give him.

He put this newest letter in the box with the others, because it was really the only place it belonged.

He told the housekeeper that dinner was cancelled tonight, but he encouraged her to take the pheasant home to her own family, because it was a shame to waste such fine game.

She had been very pleased with this, and as evening fell, the sun dipping below the crest of the valley, Francis found himself alone in the house. He put away the wine he had gotten out for James, and went to bed.

The next week passed slowly, as Francis had thought it would. Time never dragged as slowly as it did when he had something to look forward to. While on _Terror_ he had looked forward to getting home safely, to a semblance of a real life, and Fate had seen fit to stop time completely, keeping them frozen there for years. Waiting for James felt like a similar eternity.

It was a stiflingly hot afternoon when Francis finally heard the knock on his front door for which he had been waiting. He was at the door before the maid could get there, swinging it open with more force than it perhaps deserved.

He was not able to fight the wide smile that spread over his face. Here was Captain James Fitzjames, come back to him.

James was tanned, because he always tanned well. He took to the sun like a native of sunnier, warmer climes, and Francis supposed there was truth in that. He looked tired and there was a sheen of perspiration across his face, likely from the sun and from the thick wool coat he was wearing. His clothes were bedraggled from his journey; his cravat skew-whiff and coming loose.

To look at him made Francis’ heart sing.

“Dear man,” Francis said, holding out his arms, to take either James’ luggage, or James himself. “Come in.”

“Francis.” James stepped forwards to put his arms around him tightly, burying his face against his neck. Francis’ arms wound around his shoulders, one hand sliding up into his hair. “Francis,” he said again, squeezing his arms tighter. “Thank god I’m home.”

Warmth flooded over Francis. “Quite right.” He petted the back of James’ head, stroked his shoulders. “Welcome home.”

James lifted his head then, and despite his apparent exhaustion, he grinned and leant in to kiss Francis square on the mouth, there in the open doorway, in full view of God and whoever might be walking down the lane, past the house.

They were quite alone, however, and Francis drank in the feeling of the kiss, as he always did; the only thing he wanted to get drunk on ever again.

He pulled back, finally, pushing a lock of hair back from James’ face. “You look a fright.” This provoked a laugh from James, and Francis smiled. “Get you inside, now, and come and rest.”

James let himself be led in, and within an hour he had partaken of both food and drink, and had bathed to divest himself of the sweat and dust and dirt from his long journey.

Francis had left him to himself while he did all this, and found him in his dressing gown and slippers in his usual armchair by the fire. The world thus set to rights, Francis settled into the chair next to him, close enough that he could reach out and take James’ hand. “Well now. Here you are.”

James had leant his head back against the chair, his eyes closed. “Here I am,” he murmured softly, and then tipped his head towards his shoulder to smile tiredly at Francis. “I’m awfully sorry about the delay. It wasn’t by choice, you understand.”

Francis squeezed his hand, to say that he did understand. “I suppose you better tell me the whole sorry tale.”

James’ smile faded a little, and he drew his hand back to pick up his cup of tea from the small table between them. “I suppose I must.” He took a long sip, and Francis watched him curiously, picking up his own cup in turn.

James was quiet for a while and then he cleared his throat. “Well, to start at the beginning, I finished writing your letter and sent it off post-haste. I was so worried it would get lost, and you wouldn’t get my news- it arrived alright, didn’t it?” Francis nodded. “Then I was off to Whitehall, expecting to be locked in some dark cell with only a scribe to write down my ramblings, as I’d been told the day before. But I was shown into a great hall where Barrow, Ross, the whole lot of them, were waiting for me. Felt like the damn court martial all over again, such was my surprise.”

Francis raised an eyebrow. James was now staring into the fire. "There was more at foot then, as you said."

"Did I?"

"In your letter."

"Oh, yes." James chewed on his bottom lip absently for a few moments. "It was a ploy. They want to have another go at the Passage."

Francis nearly overturned his teacup as he moved to set it back on the saucer. "Jesus-" He pulled out his handkerchief, mopping up the drops of tea now on the table. He looked over at James, finally, and knew that they shared the same haunted expression. "What? They can't be serious."

“Well,” James shrugged and looked away, affecting nonchalance, but his eyes had gone very wide, and he was picking at the skin around one of his fingernails. His fingers pinched and sought to tear in short, sharp movements. "We failed, last time. They want to get it right."

Francis watched James' fingers at work, flinching a little when they finally got purchase and pulled off a tiny sliver of skin. Ruby red blood pooled up to the surface. James tutted, as if he had not expected or intended that. He took Francis' handkerchief without a word, wrapping it around his finger. There was something in the air between them, some key piece of information that James had not divulged. Francis studied his face, and it was so clearly written there that he knew it at once. "They want you to lead it."

"Of course they do," James spat, his face suddenly twisted with anger, though it was not directed to anyone in that house. "They were- it was like I was cornered, asking me all these questions- I felt like I was about to be press ganged." His eyes met Francis', and Francis felt his stomach twist with horror to see the tears brimming there. "I wondered to myself- did they legalise it again, while we were in Hell?" He barked out a laugh, but it was high pitched and forced and strangled. All of a sudden he seemed to crumple, gasping, bringing his hands to press against his eyes, rocking forwards so that he was hunched over in his chair.

" _James_ ," Francis murmured, frozen with shock, before he reached out a hand to grab him by the shoulder, as if this touch could anchor James in the real world, and bring him down from that terrible precipice they had both spend years backing away from. "James, please, don't get upset-" He moved to run a hand through James’ hair, trying to get a glimpse of his face. James pulled his hands back, his eyes red, his cheeks wet with tears. Francis stood and awkwardly positioned himself on the arm of James’ chair, so that he could gather him into his arms. James sagged against him, twisting to bury his face into Francis' chest.

"There now," Francis said, awkwardly. Never in his life had he known how to adequately comfort someone in tears, and this was no exception. But the painful lurch of his heart when he saw James' face had been enough to prompt him to try, regardless. He rested a hand on the back of James' head, and they sat in this way, in silence, for a good few minutes.

"I don't want to do it." James eventually rasped, lifting a hand to wipe his face, sniffling.

"Nor shall you," Francis said plainly, holding him tighter. James' future may have been undecided, but of this, he was absolutely sure. It was a simple truth, and he would, without hesitation, gut any fool that tried to take James back to the ice. "Nor shall you."

Later, James explained in full. The Admiralty had spent a week laying out their newest plans, the new ships, the new provisions, the route that they could take. They had asked for James' opinion and had wanted feedback on everything, down to the last detail.

They had made it clear that they wanted him to lead the expedition; Crozier too old, too embittered, and anyway too keen on retirement for them to bother making the offer. Fitzjames, having so nearly died, only to come back from the brink, was still young and spry. He knew the area, he knew the sort of ships; he was ideal.

The Admiralty also knew him well, of course, and they knew how keen he had been for advancement in the past. To be Commander of a Discovery Service expedition entire was something, these old sea lords were sure, that Fitzjames would jump at.

“Well,” Francis had said at last, once James had told him everything. “You won’t go.”

James shook his head. “I won’t go.”

Francis was glad that they understood each other.

Conversation eventually moved on to gentler things, of the dolphins James had seen racing and dancing ahead of the ship as they skirted the coast of Spain, of who Francis had seen and where he had been while James was away, but James remained in a low mood, quiet and withdrawn, for the rest of the evening. Francis, keen to cheer him up, presented him with the large pile of letters that had arrived for him while he had been away.

Francis had not known what to do with them, when they started appearing with their recipient not home to read them, and in the end he had let them pile up on his own writing desk. It was comforting to see James’ name on every envelope. Comforting to see James’ name coupled with his own address. Two pieces of information that belonged together.

James sat slouched in his chair as he read, and he squinted his eyes in the dim light of the room.

“You should get some reading glasses,” Francis offered, smiling slightly as James’ mouth twisted in rejection of the idea, his eyes not leaving the letter in his hands.

“Dundy now the father of two,” James reported instead, “mother and baby both well.” He flipped over the letter to read the back. “A girl, Georgina.” He snorted, and Francis looked away from his book, back over to James. “With all these middle names, they’ve lumbered the poor thing with a name that’s almost as long as yours.”

Francis smiled, not at the friendly insult but at the fact that James was smiling now, too. Five months away and now he was back, smiling in Francis’ drawing room. He was certain he couldn’t ask for more. “She’ll grow into it, like I did,” he said, getting to his feet. He stood in front of James’ chair and held out a hand. “Come to bed?”

James looked up from Dundy’s letter, his eyes dark and sad and tired. “I’m too worn out. I’m in no fit state for any sort of tumbling about.”

“Then you are in a fit state to come to bed, and sleep.” Francis gestured again with his outstretched hand.

James took his hand, his elegant fingers wrapping neatly around Francis’, and he heaved himself to his feet. He ducked his head to press a kiss to Francis’ forehead. “It’s no grand romantic reunion, I’m afraid.”

Francis smiled. “Of course it is.” He leant up to kiss him, a hand on the back of his head. James huffed a laugh but didn’t complain, and they were both content to remain this way for a good few moments, until a log on the fire cracked and split in two, giving James a fright. He let Francis lead him out of the room and up the stairs, into the bedroom. It was much the same as it had been when James left, but Francis had put a vase of white flowers on the side table, which was not something James would have expected. It made him smile.

He took off his dressing gown and dumped it onto the nearest chair, rubbing absently at his side, his old wound, through the fabric of his shirt.

Francis tutted, taking the crumpled dressing gown and crossing the room to hang it up in the wardrobe. “You’ve no steward now, Captain,” he said, a hand on his hip.

James laughed. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”

Francis fixed him with an unimpressed stare, but a smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth. James grinned, despite how out of sorts he felt, and watched Francis as he changed into his nightshirt. Francis had always been neat and exact, and it showed even in moments like this; Francis hanging up his waistcoat and folding his cravat neatly. James supposed that he dressed for bed now just as he had on _Terror._

“Plus ça change, eh?” He murmured, ostensibly to himself, though Francis looked over at him.

“Pardon?”

James shook his head. “Nothing. I think my good nightshirts are in the other room.” Francis hummed in agreement, and James left the room, crossing the hall to the other, smaller bedroom. It was his in name only. Rarely used, though a handy storage place for a wardrobe considerably larger than Francis’. He rummaged through a drawer until he found the nightshirt he was looking for.

Turning to leave the room, he stopped as he passed the window. The sky was not fully black yet; the late summer sunset still tinged the horizon a dark shade of orange, and James could just make out the silhouettes of the trees that lined each side of the lane. He could hear a bird singing, somewhere out in the darkness, and he had to press a hand to the wall to steady himself as he listened to it. It comforted him so to know that this is how it had been here, while he was away. His business had been ships and sea and hard work, and Francis had been safe here, grounded and settled among the towering horse-chestnut trees. While James was away, Francis would have awoken to the singing of birds, and gone to sleep with that music still in his ears.

He thought on what he had been told, what he had been offered, in Whitehall. He thought of _Erebus_ , surely crushed to dust now. He thought of everyone who they had not been able to bring home. Dust, now, as well. And he in this fine house, with a fine love that made his heart leap and dance as it had never done before he knew Francis Crozier.

It didn’t seem fair, and he knew he did not deserve such fineries. Maybe he deserved to go back to the ice. The Admiralty had sensed this, clearly, and had accordingly put such a proposition to him. They would not have him, though, whether he deserved to go or not.

He heard his name being called, Francis obviously wondering what he was doing. He gripped his nightshirt tighter and left the dark room, crossing the hall into the golden light of the bedroom, of home, of Francis.

***

“I will retire,” James announced, a few days later, over breakfast. He had recovered from the exhaustion of his journey, though he had not quite recovered from the nightmares that had inevitably come after too much brooding about ice and darkness.

Francis looked up from the paper, surprised. “You’re not yet forty.”

James shrugged, depositing a spoonful of sugar into his tea, stirring with perhaps more force than necessary. “That doesn’t matter.” He removed the spoon from the cup, tapping it lightly on the rim to remove excess liquid, and Francis had to grab his wrist to stop him from depositing the wet spoon back into the sugar bowl, which was something that James did often, and something that caused no end of vexation in Francis. James shot him an annoyed look, but put the spoon elsewhere, the sugar bowl left unsullied. “I’m done with it all.”

“But you love it. The sea, the adventure.” Francis said, his hand still on James’ wrist, though his hold was loose and gentle. He thought of James as a young man, fresh faced and excited, dreaming of a life at sea, full to the brim of action and escapades. What a face that young man would pull, if he knew what the coming years had in store for him. Perhaps, if he had known, he would have quit the Navy and taken up a trade, or married well and lived the life of a country gentleman. He had not known, however, and the sea had been his life.

James sighed, staring down at his cup of tea. “You of all people must understand. My first night on board, as we left for Gibraltar, I was so scared I could have wept. I kept checking my compass, afraid that I’d suddenly realise we were heading north. I sat up for most of the night, watching it. The only thing that could comfort me was knowing we were heading south, south east.”

Francis was silent, feeling naïve and uncouth for underestimating how James had changed, how the gallant Captain Fitzjames had been brought low in the same way that he himself had been brought low. The Navy had used them and spat them out, and they would never be free of the after-effects. He rubbed small circles into James’ wrist with his thumb.

“When I accepted this posting, I thought to myself – if I can get through this, I can prove myself again. I can be again who I was before.” He turned his hand over to entwine his fingers with Francis’. “But that first night proved to me – I’m beyond all that now. I’m no use to any of them, and I don’t want to do it.” He squeezed Francis’ hand and looked at him with a sort of fierce determination in his eyes. Sad and defiant at the same time. “So, I will retire.”

Francis found himself nodding. “Well, I shan’t complain.” James’ mouth was twisted and pulled down with his sad expression, and Francis wondered if a kiss would revive it to its normal state. He leant forward to close the distance between them and test the theory. “What will you do, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“In retirement.”

James tilted his head slightly, the corners of his mouth turning up now. “I’ll be here, won’t I?” He waved his hand with a gesture that took in the breakfast, the room, their coats hung up next to each other in the hall.

Francis smiled. He had not doubted it, but it was nice to hear James say it, confirm it, put the words and the concept out into the world. “Of course you will.” James was smiling back at him, and Francis thought back on his theory. Kissing him certainly seems to have improved his sad expression and mood. He wondered if taking him back to bed would improve them further, and he decided to test this theory too.

He was about to act on this, but James suddenly rose from his chair with an _Oh! I’ve just remembered_ and left the room for a few minutes.

“I have bought you some presents,” James said, coming back into the room with these items in his arms, and now he put them on the table and pushed them towards Francis. “From my week trapped in London.”

“I don’t need anything.” Francis felt his cheeks flush.

James lifted his chin. “I get to decide that, when it’s my own money I’m spending.” Francis found he couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

He scowled a little, instinctively, out of some lingering embarrassment at now being the centre of attention. Nevertheless, he reached out a hand to disassemble the small pile.

Two cravats, neatly folded, were on top. One in cream, and one in a deep forest green. Both silk, both as soft as butter. “The colours.” James said, clearing his throat. “I thought they’d suit you.”

Francis just nodded, trusting James’ wisdom in these matters. There was also a new chain for his pocket watch, and a pot of silver polish to go with it. A few books; some observations from a scientific expedition in Australia, a couple of novels and, at the bottom of the pile, a slim red volume of poetry, the gold lettering reading _Sonnets from the Portuguese,_ by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

“Oh,” Francis said, as his eyes fell on this last one. He lingered on the title and looked up at James, who was chewing his lip as he did when he was nervous.

“I know you’re not one for poetry, mostly. But I thought-” James reached out a hand to rest it on the book. He ran a fingertip over the word _Portuguese,_ embossed in gold. “I’ve read it, and it’s wonderful. These poems are...they make me think of everything you are to me.”

Francis gave a start, and James suddenly laughed, turning away, clapping a hand to his face, over his eyes. “What drivel I’m spouting. Lord, you’ve undone me Francis, I swear, forgive me...”

“No-” Francis interjected, aware that he was flushing bright red. James turned back to him, his dark eyes watching him through his fingers, as if he could hardly bear to look. “It’s true, I don’t really know good poetry from bad poetry. But I’ll read them all.” He reached out to take James’ hand from his face, and he held it tightly. “I’ll read them all, and think of you.”

James beamed, and Francis knew all his embarrassment and awkward words had been worth it. “Thank you, for all of this.” James shifted closer, and Francis rested a hand against his cheek. “I’m very flattered that you thought of me, while you were away.”

James’ eyes were lively, and he quirked his eyebrows, affecting a philosophical look. “Thinking of you is as breathing. It simply happens, without conscious decision.”

Francis snorted a laugh and patted his cheek lightly, in mock admonition. “You’re quite the wordsmith today.”

James’ mouth opened, no doubt to make some witty rejoinder, but Francis leant in to kiss him, and silenced all thoughts of speech.

***

Sometime later, with breakfast half eaten and abandoned, James sighed as he burrowed under Francis’ arm, resting his head on his shoulder. His hand rested on Francis’ chest, his fingers dancing idly over his skin, from freckle to freckle. “Well,” he began, looking up at Francis, who was still catching his breath, his cheeks still pink from exertion. “What will we two retired old men do with ourselves now?”

Francis smiled crookedly. “Careful with that. If you think yourself old, lord knows what that makes me.”

“You are wonderful,” James said, which didn’t really answer the question, and he craned his neck to press a kiss to Francis’ cheek.

Francis seemed pleased at that, and he lifted a hand to stroke up and down James’ arm. “You may do what you want, I suppose. You may write your memoirs, or take up tennis, or go riding, or travel up and down the country in search of japes and larks.” He affected a crisp English accent for this last part, and James laughed, his hand sliding around to Francis’ waist, so he could pull himself closer.

“And a jolly time would be had by all, no doubt.” He arched an eyebrow and Francis grinned at that, gap toothed and sweet. “And while I’m off gallivanting, what will you do?”

“I shall be here,” Francis said, matter-of-factly. “I have a household to run.” It was a small household indeed, with only two staff and no great amount of land to speak of, but it was Francis’, and he was happy with it.

“Oh yes,” James laughed, “the Lord of the manor must be here to survey his holdings.”

“Just so.” Francis slid his hand up James’ arm, twisting slight to face him, to slide his hand into his dark hair. “You may go where you like and do what you want, of course. But I hope you’ll come back here, at the end of the day.”

There was silence for a long moment. James looked at him with eyes that seemed suddenly unfathomably dark. The easy amusement had gone from his face. Francis almost had to look away from his gaze, as serious and earnest as it was. “You brought me back from Hell,” James said, his voice barely above a murmur. “I could not leave you now.”

Francis felt that he could hardly move, breathe, think. He nodded minutely. “No.” His hand cupped James’ cheek, and James turned his head to kiss his palm. There was a songbird in the tree outside the bedroom window, and she sang, lively and delicate, and on and on and on. “I could not leave you, either.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> title taken from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnets from the Portuguese, number VI (read here - https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2002/2002-h/2002-h.htm) 
> 
> so i finally got to write a fix-it AU! it's what they deserve. and yes i moved them to yorkshire because it's where i'm from and it's the best county, sorry not sorry.
> 
> find me on tumblr - norvegiae.tumblr.com


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